


If What You've Lost Is What You Are

by Kansas42



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Magnus Bane, Denial, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Magnus Bane, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magnus Bane-centric, Post-Episode: s03e10 Erchomai, Suicidal Thoughts, Supportive Alec Lightwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 17:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17882099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kansas42/pseuds/Kansas42
Summary: None of it’s the same, but it’s okay. He’s okay. He’s handling it.(He’s not handling it.)





	If What You've Lost Is What You Are

**Author's Note:**

> Ideally, I would’ve spent a bit more time with this fic, but I really wanted to post it before the 3B premiere could contradict literally everything I’ve written. (Honestly, I’m pretty sure the sneak peaks, which I’ve desperately been trying to avoid, have already contradicted half of what I’ve written, but oh well.)
> 
> Also, Clary is obviously not dead, but I didn’t have the space/time/energy to deal with that here, so everyone just thinks she’s dead in this fic.
> 
> Trigger warnings in the tags.

“You know,” Alec says, obviously trying—and failing—to keep the judgment out of his voice, “I didn’t insist that you train with me just so you could get into a bar fight with six mundanes.”

Magnus shrugs, dignified as he can be while Alec’s cleaning blood out of his eyebrow.

“You know me, darling,” he says. “I can make anything a party.”

#

To say that Magnus handles the loss of his magic _well_ . . . that, perhaps, would be dishonest. But he’s not entirely the lost, confused puppy that Alec clearly thinks he is. There are plenty of things he’s still perfectly capable of handling. He knows what he’s doing.

Putting on his face, for instance.

Magnus passes over the browns and blacks and golds for the red eyeshadow: blood red, bright and aggressive. His eyeliner is dark and thick, smudged in the best of ways. And all right, he can’t simply magic away the cut on his forehead anymore, but he can still make it disappear with concealer and foundation and powder. He looks . . . untouchable, unpredictable, dangerous. It’s a lie, but also not.

He inclines his head, considering his reflection in the mirror, then adds lipstick, too. He needs something different. Something new.

“That’s a . . . look,” Alec says carefully, the way he says just about everything these days. Magnus swallows down his irritation and smiles up at him.

“A bad look?”

“You could never look bad,” Alec says immediately, and Magnus feels something soften inside his chest, if only for a moment. He does love how earnest his Alexander can be sometimes.

“But . . .”

Swiftly, the irritation returns. Magnus hasn’t suffered mood swings this severe since, oh, that dreadful warlock pox he caught back in the 19th century. “But?” he asks sweetly. He aims for sweet, anyway, although even he can hear the bite in his voice. _But WHAT, Alexander_?

Alec just watches him steadily. “You’re pretending again,” he says finally. “And I get why you need to do that right now, but just . . . with me, you never have to. You still know that, right?”

For one long, terrible moment, Magnus feels the overwhelming urge to scream at him.

“Of course, darling,” he says instead, kissing Alec lightly on the cheek and returning to his reflection. If his tilts his head just right, he can almost pretend to see his eyes glint.

Behind him, Alec sighs.

#

Magnus still goes out drinking, just like he always has. He can’t magic away his hangovers anymore, no, but his tolerance is as high as ever. He’s built it up for centuries, after all. It doesn’t just vanish, not like everything else.

He still goes out to dinner with Alec, too. They can’t portal across the globe, of course, but there are still untold wonders hidden across the city, and Magnus delights in finding them. The new Peruvian restaurant he’s discovered is simply divine.

He still goes out dancing, too, just like, well. Just like he used to. Alec’s never been one for the club scene, poor thing, and Magnus has resisted the urge to torment him—but more often than not, Alec’s called away on mission, and Magnus is _bored_. He’s perfectly capable of entertaining himself, and he’s missed this, losing himself in a throng of people, surrendering to the thump-thump-thump of the beat.

He still makes shampoo, still answers Baby Downworlder questions, still has fantastic, mind blowing sex with Alexander. None of it’s the same, but it’s okay. He’s okay. He’s handling it.

#

A warlock attacks him.

The warlock’s name is Emmerich, and he’s angry with Magnus over a preposterous 300-year-old grudge that’s so ridiculous it doesn’t even bear repeating. It is unacceptable, just completely unacceptable, that after surviving countless centuries, Magnus is going to get murdered by some pathetic excuse of a warlock who still thinks that straw boater hats are an acceptable fashion. If Magnus had his magic, Emmerich would never _dare_ to come after him, certainly not in his own home.

But it’s not surprising, not really. Lorenzo had been on the warpath, promising to banish Magnus to the Spiral Labyrinth, and the only way to avoid it was to come clean about his deal with Asmodeus. Predictably, Lorenzo had been smug, not to mention indiscreet. It was humiliating, but more, it painted a target on Magnus’s back, and Lorenzo had done it willingly. There really was no end to his personal brand of pompous malevolence.

Emmerich, having broken through Catarina’s wards with either stolen magic or unbelievable luck, is throwing lightning across Magnus’s living room. He’s throwing lightning and _laughing_.

Oh. Oh, he thinks this is going to be easy.

Magnus can feel himself grinning as he dodges across the room. It’s an inappropriate response—everything inside him is fury and grief and more fury—but he can’t seem to stop. A blast knocks him into a wall, and he grins harder, pushing himself back up again. His whole left side is agony; he definitely broke something, but that doesn’t matter right now. That’s not the problem.

He makes it to the apothecary. The cabinets are full of all sorts of things: old, magical elixirs, new, less-magical shampoos. He grabs an experimental potion he brewed maybe four months ago and ducks down to hide just as Emmerich walks into the room, lightning crackling all around him.

Magnus waits until he gets close before splashing the potion in Emmerich’s face.

His wrists, especially his sleeves, get a bit singed for his efforts, but it’s worth it: Emmerich stumbles back, magic sputtering out. It won’t last long, maybe half an hour at best, but that’s enough, that’s more than enough time. He dodges easily under Emmerich’s wild swing and smashes the empty potion bottle against the wall.

Emmerich lunges, and Magnus slits the warlock’s throat with a glass shard.

Blood spatters everywhere. There’s blood on Magnus’s face, in his mouth. Blood all over his silk shirt and his bare feet and the carpet. Cleaning it all up will be a nightmare. That’s not the problem right now. His right hand is bloody, too, although most of that’s his own; the glass sliced deeply into his palm and fingers. They tremble violently. That’s not the problem, either.

The problem is this: he wasn’t alone, when Emmerich suddenly attacked.

Magnus staggers back to the living room. Madzie’s still on the ground, eyes closed, bleeding heavily from the head. He falls to his knees, cups her face with his bloody fingers. “Sweet Pea,” he says, voice shaking as badly as his hands. “Wake up for me now. Wake up, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t wake up. 

Magnus swallows, tries to think. There’s no elixir for getting hit in the head with a piece of exploded ceiling, or if there is, he doesn’t have it, can’t brew it, can’t do anything. He can’t heal her with that worthless mundane first aid kit Alec bought him. Can’t call 911, not with Madzie’s gills exposed, certainly not with a dead body in the other room.

He calls Catarina. She’s at the hospital, doesn’t pick up. He calls her work number. Whoever answers the phone can’t find her. Alec, Isabelle, and Jace are all in Alicante. Maia left. Raphael is missing. Biscuit is dead. Luke is in hiding. Magnus tries him anyway, but gets no reply. 

Madzie is bleeding, Madzie might be dying, and Magnus is dialing number after number because there is nothing, nothing, nothing else he can do—

“Hello?” Simon answers on the fifth ring, voice despondent and confused. “Magnus?”

Magnus sobs in relief.

#

Simon speeds Madzie to Catarina straightaway.

“She’s going to be fine,” Simon says over the phone, and Magnus lets himself collapse on the sofa. He barely hears whatever else is said: something about Magnus being injured, about him coming down to the hospital himself. Something about not being alone. It doesn’t matter. Really, it’s hypocritical, considering how Simon has done nothing but isolate himself for weeks since Clary died. Magnus is shocked Simon actually picked up the phone.

Or maybe he’s _in_ shock. He can’t tell. It’s entirely possible he’s be in some state of shock or another since returning from Edom.

It’s fine.

“Hey?” Simon asks. “You still there?”

“I have to go,” Magnus says. Sitting hurts, so he stands. Standing hurts, so he breathes through it. Breathing hurts, so he picks up a bottle of whiskey. “Please give Sweet Pea my best. And tell Catarina . . .” 

He swallows. Everything, it all hurts.

“Tell her I’m so sorry.”

“Magnus, wait—”

Magnus hangs up.

His right hand is still trembling badly. He manages to spill whiskey all over the drink cart before giving up, abandoning the glass, and drinking straight from the bottle instead. “I’m sorry,” he says again, to no one.

No one says anything back.

He keeps drinking.

#

When he thinks about it, when he really thinks, it’s incredible how infinite Magnus’s capacity is for self-deception.

Yes, he still goes out dancing, but only because his thoughts are too loud and his loft too quiet, and if he stays still for one second longer, he knows he’ll start breaking things and screaming like a small child.

Yes, he still goes out to dinner with Alec, but there are so many awkward silences now, so many agonizing moments where Alec tries to fix Magnus, and Magnus refuses, fucking _refuses_ , to act broken.

Yes, he still goes out drinking, but he can’t stop at two or three or six drinks anymore because he hates that impossibly high tolerance of his, needs to keep going until he can’t see straight, or walk straight, or feel his own skin.

He certainly can’t feel much right now. Can’t walk straight, either, sort of curves his way towards the balcony, whiskey in hand—or no, he dropped the bottle somewhere. Maybe he finished it? He doesn’t remember that, but his memory might not be at the height of its reliability right now. Possibly, the alcohol on top of the blood loss wasn’t one of his most fabulous ideas. Either way, there’s plenty more liquor to be had inside. He considers going to fetch some, but . . . it’s so very far away, and the night air feels so good against his skin.

Magnus leans over the edge of the balcony. The street is so very far away, too. How long would it take, he wonders, to hit the ground? Less time than walking back to his drink cart? More? Everything takes so much _effort_ these days, and he’s so tired. It’s been so long since he’s been this tired.

Camille isn’t here this time, though. No one’s here. That’s what he wanted, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t—

“Magnus!”

Magnus turns, surprised, and briefly loses which way is up. He feels himself tilting backwards before being violently pulled away from the edge. There are familiar hands gripping his arms. He looks up. 

Alec stares down at him, breathing too hard, eyes wide.

“Oh, hello,” Magnus says.

Alec’s mouth moves soundlessly. “ _Hello_?” he finally sputters. “You almost, you could have—"

“Wait, no.” Magnus is confused. “You’re not here. You’re in Alicante.”

“I came back early.” Alec can’t seem to stop searching his face, eyes bewildered and frightened. Has his makeup smeared that badly, or—no, Emmerich’s blood. He never did get around to washing it off. Didn’t do anything about the body, either. Won’t that be a fun surprise for his Alexander to find?

He means to say something about it, he really does, but loses his train of thought as Alec maneuvers him inside. That’s good, that’s where the drink cart is—only Alec keeps pulling him away. “Stop,” he says. “Magnus, stop. You’ve had enough.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “No such thing.”

“Definitely a thing. You—” Alec stops, seeing the state of Magnus’s fingers. “By the angel—”

“Why?” Magnus asks, cutting him off.

“Why what?”

Magnus blinks at him. “Why did you come back early?”

Alec stares again. Magnus is beginning to think his boyfriend might be broken. That’s unfortunate because Magnus has no idea how to fix him when he can’t even fix himself. He can’t fix anyone. Not Madzie. Not Simon or Jace. Alec is exhausted and stretched so thin, and Magnus can’t do anything to help. Except maybe—

No. Apparently, he can’t even kiss right anymore, because his lips go wide, landing somewhere mouth-adjacent.

“I always have to,” Magnus says absently, into Alec’s cheek.

“Always have to what?”

He doesn’t answer, too busy pulling away and squinting around the room. Where did he put that whiskey bottle again?

Alec sighs and steers Magnus towards the bathroom, sitting him down on the toilet lid. The walls seem to be moving, and Magnus would very much like to lie down now, only Alec is kneeling next to him with washcloths and antiseptics and bandages. Once the High Warlock of Brooklyn, now reduced to Neosporin. He starts laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, darling,” Magnus says, because it’s true. Nothing is funny. Nothing at all.

Alec is quiet. “I talked to Simon,” he says finally, carefully tweezing glass out of Magnus’s hand. “And Catarina. They’re both very worried about you.”

“I’m—”

“Magnus, if you say you’re fine one more time, so help me—”

“I’m sorry.”

Alec watches him. “For what?”

“Sweet Pea.”

“She’s going to be fine, and that wasn’t your fault. You got her help. You did good.”

Magnus shakes his head. “Me.”

“What?”

Magnus droops forward, forehead knocking into Alec’s. Alec winces, but doesn’t pull away. “I always have to,” Magnus says again. “With you.”

“Have to what?”

“Pretend.”

Alec inhales. He does try to pull away then, but Magnus doesn’t let him.

“With everyone,” he says, “but especially with you because. It’s not just an ability. A talent. I didn’t forget how to juggle.”

Alec massages the back of Magnus’s neck. “I know.”

“You don’t.” His eyes flutter shut. “You think it’s your runes, and it is. It is your runes, but it’s your duty, too. Your bow and quiver. Your usefulness. Your community. Your pride. The years you spent denying what you were, or looking for what you were. The people who tried to mold you, to make you what they wanted. The people who outcast you, hunted you, looked at you as less than. It’s breaking free of them. It’s. It’s accepting, embracing. Your wedding. My eyes. It’s this slow, painful, rewarding journey. Gone, it’s all gone.”

“Magnus—”

Alec is shifting, holding him tightly. Magnus doesn’t remember when he started sobbing into Alec’s shirt.

“It’s not a talent,” Magnus insists. “It’s who I am, it’s who you fell in love with. It’s my skin and bones, Alexander. If I don’t get my magic back . . . I’m nothing.”

“Then we’ll get it back,” Alec says. “I promise, I _promise_ you, Magnus. It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Shhh,” Alec says. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He’s wiping a cool washcloth over Magnus’s face. Magnus leans into it—and then he’s in bed, somehow, and his hands are wrists are bandaged, and his blood-spattered shirt is gone. Alec is lying next to him, running his fingers through Magnus’s hair.

“Will you stay?” Magnus whispers, blinking slowly.

Alec smiles at him. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Good,” Magnus says, sighing in relief, and passes out.

 

#

Magnus wakes up the next morning and regrets all of his life choices.

There’s a potion on the bedside table, accompanied by a very pointed note about said life choices, specifically about beating himself up over things outside his control and drinking himself stupid instead of drinking himself stupid with old friends. Madzie, he sees, has also drawn him a picture of . . . well, it looks like an oddly-shaped block standing next to a taller, oddly-shaped block, but he’s relatively sure it’s supposed to be the two of them.

Impatiently, he wipes the tears from his eyes. There was quite enough of that nonsense last night.

Oh God, last night.

The potion makes Magnus shudder for a full three minutes, but it’s worth it: his stomach settles, headache eases. The taste in his mouth is no longer grave dirt and stale whiskey. It’s tempting to slip back into bed and hide under his pillow, but he’s hardly four centuries old anymore. He pushes himself up and slowly—very slowly—gets dressed.

Alec is in the apothecary, cleaning blood off the floor. Emmerich’s body is gone. One way or another, there will be repercussions for this. Lorenzo will almost certainly try to blame Magnus for nearly getting murdered somehow, but he’ll worry about that later. One crisis at a time.

Alec looks up at him. “Hey,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

Alec nods. “How are you really feeling?”

Magnus exhales. “Ashamed, mostly,” he says, fiddling with his ear. “And while Catarina’s hangover cure might the most miraculous concoction in history, there are unfortunate side effects to being sober. Namely, I can feel my hands now. And my ribs.”

Alec stands up, alarmed. “Your ribs? Are they—”

“Broken? _Very_. At least two, I think.” Magnus waves Alec off. “Don’t fret, darling. There’s nothing to do. Some wounds, you can only wait until they heal.”

“Will they heal?”

Magnus hears the unspoken question there and swallows.

“I don’t know,” he says, meeting Alec’s eyes. “Maybe not.”

It’s clearly not the answer Alec was hoping for, but he nods anyway, and crosses the room to gently hug him. Magnus stands stiffly for a moment before letting himself melt into it.

“You remember last night?” Alec asks.

“Ugh. Mostly.”

“You scared me, out on the balcony.”

“I guess we’re even, then.”

Alec pulls back. The frown on his face is so severely disapproving that he surely inherited it from Maryse.

“Sorry,” Magnus says, fiddling with his ear again. “I never meant—it was only an accident—"

“Magic can’t create fears,” Alec says. “Only bring them out, remember? Pretty sure it’s the same for alcohol and depression.”

Magnus doesn’t say anything.

Alec squeezes his shoulder. “Just promise me. Promise you’ll—”

“I will,” Magnus says, and means it. “I’ll tell you if things ever get that bad.”

“Good,” Alec says, and kisses him.

Magnus is a little breathless by the time Alec pulls away again. “We can always move this back into the bedroom,” he suggests hopefully.

Alec takes a step in that direction before visibly stopping himself. He opens his mouth, face determined, and Magnus groans.

“Alexander,” he says, “I love you, but there’s a limit to how many heartfelt conversations I can have before nine in the morning.”

Alec looks at him seriously. “I just need to say this one thing.”

Magnus sighs theatrically. “Very well, then,” he says, tangling his fingers through Alec’s hair.

Alec closes his eyes, humming a little. “That’s not fair. You know that distracts me.”

Magnus grins.

Alec shakes his head, smiling. “You’re terrible.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too—”

“Magic or not,” Alec continues.

Magnus feels his grin fade.

“You were right, last night,” Alec says. “I don’t think I fully understood just how much you’d given up. Maybe I still don’t, not completely. And I will do everything, _everything_ I can to get your magic back. But if I can’t . . . Magnus, I love you. I love every version of you. This version, today? You’re . . . you’re beautiful. You’re brave and kind and so beautiful. You _are_ still something without your magic. You’re. You’re everything to me.”

Magnus’s breath hitches. So much, he thinks, for not crying today.

“And, I don’t know,” Alec says. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not the same Magnus I fell in love with, but. So much has happened to us. Maybe I’m not the same Alec, either. I think, I think that’s okay. We can figure out who we are now together. That journey . . . we can take it together?” He falters, shifting self-consciously. “Maybe that doesn’t make sense. I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m doing, just, I love you. I’m not any good at this, but I love you, and—”

Magnus kisses him.

 _Something different_ , he thinks, as Alec makes pleased noises in the back of his throat. _With Alexander, something different. Something new. A beginning_.

“You’re great at this,” Magnus tells him, and they move back into the bedroom, after all.

-FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life!


End file.
